


swing low sweet chariot

by queenundisputed



Series: there's a monster inside my head [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 15:09:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7537591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenundisputed/pseuds/queenundisputed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What I am, love,” he began as he started to circle her like a cat with its prey, “is a pirate without a ship, a man without a purpose, a love unreciprocated, a drunkard who is beginning to edge toward dangerously sober, a thirst for violence unquenched, and a million other things that you should not have hauled out of that alleyway.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	swing low sweet chariot

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't kept up with OUaT for quite some time now, but I feel bad for leaving some of my stories unfinished, including this series. And I had written this plus one other for this series last year but never posted either for some reason. Obviously, this doesn't follow canon at all, and any new information that's been given on the characters since the middle of last year, I'd say, won't be included in my characterizations here. This also only saw the first half get a light beta from a good friend of mine. Aside from that it has had only minor editing. Hopefully that will cover the worst and most glaring of the flaws, but if you catch any, let me know. Anyway, I hope the only or two lonely fans of this pairing that still exist enjoy!

Drunk again.

It took a great deal of alcohol to get him drunk, and this was the third night in a row that he’d left the only bloody bar in Storybrooke stumbling, half blind, and with the stench of rum radiating off him like a lady’s perfume. He was going to drink them out of business at the rate he was going.

Oh if his younger self could see him now. How proud he’d be to see what he’d become.

He chuckled to himself.

He took his flask out of its hidden pocket. It was empty. Just his luck.

He threw the flask into a nearby alleyway, thought better of it, and stumbled into the darkness to fetch it. He tripped over what might have been air and fell into a brick wall. It was comfortable enough, and he thought he might just stay where he fell for a bit since it seemed to be such a welcoming spot. It was cosy, really, what with the cold ground beneath him and what had to be an overflowing trash bin somewhere nearby. It had charm, this alleyway. Perhaps he’d get a cat, and together they could call this alleyway home.

Other people’s opinions had stopped mattering to him after a while. Loss did that to a person. You stopped caring. But that was when he’d a reputation for being one of the most dangerous pirates on the seven seas. That was when he was captain of his own bloody ship, and his crew knew better than to question his plans. That was before Emma bloody Swan and her bloody blonde hair and smile and whatever else he’d gone soppy over.

Now when people looked at him like he was trash they’d rather have taken out, it hit him somewhere he’d hidden away: a soft underbelly that he thought he’d lost long ago. He’d thought he’d lost his heart too, but he’d been wrong on both counts. Now he was paying for that ignorance.

His reputation was in tatters with mermaids insisting he was a good man, evil queens accusing him of being a love sick idiot, and rescue missions to his name instead of kidnappings. His crew was nowhere to be found which was to be expected after he’d abandoned them on his quest for revenge. Revenge that he’d, apparently, given up on completely because he was reforming or some ridiculous drivel like that. And his ship, well, his ship was long gone because the evil queen was right; he was pining away for a woman.

His life was a mess, good and proper, and the only thing he could do about it was drink himself into oblivion every night. Bad form that was. He smacked his head against the brick behind him and groaned.

If only it’d been him instead of Liam—

Ah, but that was a dangerous line of thought, wasn’t it?

The last time he’d been brought low enough to start thinking like that, he’d almost drowned trying to slay a sea beast with merely his hook. He had Smee to thank for the fact he wasn’t rotting in Davy Jones’ locker after that one. The sea beast hadn’t been so lucky, but that wasn’t the point, was it?

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the cold, crisp night air, the stench of rotting waste, and his own deplorable odor. Personal hygiene hadn’t been his top priority of late, and it was beginning to show. He’d always been particularly clean for a pirate; it was the navy background that made keeping his shirts clean and rotated, his boots aired out, and his skin and hair washed a routine that he’d never quite lost. It hadn’t always been possible to maintain that level of cleanliness, but he’d always given it his best. Ladies had always appreciated it, and he’d never minded being the pretty boy pirate. That suited him just fine.

But now he wasn’t putting in the effort. It was a kindness he wasn’t interested in paying himself presently. If people were going to call him trash, he might as well live up to their expectations.

At any rate, he’d lost his spare shirts when he’d traded away his ship. Clever of him, really.

Clever, clever, clever. Yes, that’s most certainly what he was. He chuckled again and then turned his head to look out of the alleyway.

Haloed by the street lamp across the street was a woman. Not the woman he wanted, of course, but a woman nevertheless.

He grinned wolfishly at her though in the shadows he wasn’t sure she could see it.

“Good evening, my lady. We simply must stop crossing each other’s paths like this. People might talk.”

“You look a fright, you know that?”

She walked further into the alley and crouched down by his side. Her nose wrinkled, and he spared a moment to consider how adorable it was. In another lifetime, perhaps he’d—

Ah, but it was best not to dwell on what he used to be when he very clearly wasn’t that any longer.

“I do know that. I know that very well, thank you,” he replied instead, and he felt from the way the skin on his face bunched and stretched that he was still smiling at her. He couldn’t quite remember how to stop.

“Very polite this evening,” she murmured, looking around instead of at him.

“Well I am feeling very content. You see, I’m where I belong,” he gestured to the nearby waste, “with the rest of the trash.”

She rolled her eyes. “You deserve a lot of things, Hook, and some of them unpleasant, but not this.”

“How kind of you.”

She looked at him for a long moment, and he felt the smile slide off his face naturally. Muscles always remembered eventually.

She stood, dusted her hands on her skirt, and then held out one hand expectantly.

“Come on then, up you go,” she said.

He quirked an eyebrow at her.

“I’ve no inclination to move at present.”

“I don’t care about any of your inclinations,” she said, smartly.

They stayed still in that stalemate for a long moment while he deliberated his choices. She really was quite pretty, he decided. He had a vague remembrance of deciding that at least once or twice before, but he often forgot because she had such a smart mouth and such bad taste in demons.

“Do you really want to rot here, Hook?”

It was an impatient demand, but he was in no mood to be easy. If she planned to catch and care for him, she would need to work just a bit harder.

“I thought I was already rotten,” he said, casting his eyes to the ground and doing what he presumed was a decent job of looking dejected and downcast.

He assumed his performance had been successful when she huffed and her hand disappeared from his peripheral vision. He suspects it now rests on her hip, angled just so as to convey a hint of her disapproval. 

“A hasty comment from an angry woman damaged your ego that much?”

He could hear the blatant disbelief in her tone so he looked up at her again. Her hands were, indeed, on her hips, and her expression was decidedly unimpressed.

“My ego was damaged not a whit, darling; worry not.”

“I know you’re lying, but I’m not sure what about. I am sure that I don’t much care. Now get up.”

He stumbled to his feet obediently, leaning against the wall to catch his breath and stop the spinning of his head. Or the ground. Or perhaps it was both.

She grabbed the collar of his coat and dragged him out of the alleyway. The street lamp was brighter without the shelter of the alley walls, and he squinted against what felt like an onslaught of overly bright light.

“Careful, love,” he said. Apparently content to ignore his complaints, she pushed him forward.

She marched him two buildings up to the library, took keys from her pocket, and shoved him inside once the door was open.

With the door shut behind her, the library was dark and still.

He saw the blur of movement as she grappled for the light switch as his eyes adjusted to the dim glow of light through the shuttered windows, and he reached out to still her hand.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he said softly.

Her arm went rigid under his touch, and he let her go instantly.

She dropped her hand without turning the lights on, and he took two steps back in repayment.

He couldn’t see her expression in the dark, but she was silent. Perhaps he had startled her.

He turned his back on her, coat fanning out around him, and he promptly smacked into a stack of books that dropped around his feet as he swore and rubbed his nose.

“Are you sure you don’t want the lights on?”

Her voice was sweet and full of stifled laughter.

“Fine, fine,” he snapped, still rubbing at his injured nose. Who stacked books this high near the entryway to begin with? Rubbish that was. And a safety hazard, clearly.

He glared at her once the lights were on and she could see him. She smiled back at him, and he dropped to the ground as gently as he could manage to gather the books he had caused to fall. He heard her stifled laughter again and was just about the growl something vicious at her when she knelt down beside him and started gathering books herself.

“I’ve done this once or twice myself,” she said, and then added, “With the lights on.”

“And sober, I’d imagine,” he commented.

“And sober,” she agreed.

He picked up a stray book, turned it in his hand to see the cover, and swore quietly. Treasure Island. He would bet good gold that the book was about pirates. Of bloody course it was about pirates. Probably proper pirates too and not neutered ones like himself. A pretty girl like Belle wouldn’t take pity on the kind of blood thirsty scallywags and scoundrels in this book. He gave her a sly look out of the corner of his eye. On second thought, she just might.

She took the book out of his hand and glanced at the title.

“I haven’t read this one yet,” she remarked, and then she set it back up on the stack without further comment.

With the books off the floor, they both stood, and she wrinkled her nose again.

“You reek,” she said with distaste.

“I’ve no doubt,” he replied with a roll of his shoulders.

“I don’t remember you smelling quite so ripe before,” she said, and he could practically see the wheels in her little head turning as she tried to figure him out.

“I suspect you don’t.”

“Given up on bathing, have you?”

“I might’ve,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and keeping his head up. He wasn’t proud exactly because there was nothing to be proud of, but he refused to be ashamed as an alternative.

“I see,” was her reply, and she mirrored his defiant pose. “I would rethink that plan, were I you.”

“Lucky for you, you’re not me,” he said.

She rolled her eyes again. She found him quite contemptuous this evening it would seem.

“What exactly is so terrible about being you? You’re alive,” she began to tick items off on her fingers, “you’re well clothed even if you smell, you live in a wonderful town without any looming threats to your well-being at present, you can apparently access all the alcohol you could ever possibly need, and aside from the grey cloud over your usually well-groomed head, you seem to be quite healthy.”

“What I am, love,” he began as he started to circle her like a cat with its prey, “is a pirate without a ship, a man without a purpose, a love unreciprocated, a drunkard who is beginning to edge toward dangerously sober, a thirst for violence unquenched, and a million other things that you should not have hauled out of that alleyway.”

He stopped behind her and leaned in close to her ear.

“It’s the spirit that ails, girl, not the body,” he finished, whispering the last part, dark and quiet.

She turned on him suddenly and pushed him back using both hands. Her gaze, when he met it, was hard and unrelenting in its apathy.

“I’ve told you before, you don’t scare me. Not one bit. I’ve met and tamed beasts far more frightening than you. You’re just pretty words wrapped up in a pretty face,” she stopped for a moment and her look softened. “You can stay here tonight. Try to stay out of trouble. Don’t break anything.”

She stepped around him and headed for the exit.

“Wait,” he said, his voice edging toward desperate.

He hadn’t been lying when he said he was sobering up. The haze of alcohol was beginning to fade all too quickly, and he didn’t want to be alone in the quiet library with all the time in the world to think. He wasn’t much of a reader, really; fantastical worlds and other people’s stories weren’t of any particular interest to him unless he could gain something from the knowledge. They weren’t an escape he’d ever found effective.

“I’m tired, Hook, and I’ve someone waiting for me at home. Give me one good reason to stay, or I’m leaving this instant.”

“I don’t have one other than I feel it would be dangerous to leave me alone with my thoughts. Though I’ll admit it might be just as dangerous to stay. Somehow I doubt that will appeal to your sense of sympathy.”

Belle sighed, her body slumped ever so slightly as though in defeat. She took two steps back toward him, leaving the exit behind.

“I really do need to get home. Rumple will be waiting for me,” she said, quietly.

“If my knowledge about the subject is reliable, he kept you waiting for quite some time. Perhaps it’s his turn to keep vigil, hmm?”

“He thought I was dead. I can’t blame him for that,” she replied.

“Can’t you?”

“You won’t turn me against him,” she said, eyes narrowed. “His heart is true. Your insinuations won’t change that.”

“I wouldn’t dream of turning you against your lover, and if I did, I’d do a damn sight better than a few insinuations in the middle of the night in a locked library. Do give me some credit.”

She smiled at him then. It wasn’t a toothy smile; it was closed lipped and subtle, but it was a smile still. He had succeeded in amusing her. That was something, he supposed. She took another step forward and placed her hand delicately on the front desk. He watched her as she studied her fingertips, watched them as they danced over the wood grain butterfly light and almost nervously.

“Do you ever wonder how you’ll die, Belle?”

Her head snapped up, her concentration on her fingers broken in an instant, and she stared at him with her mouth slightly open. He smiled softly because she had reacted how he imagined; he slowly stepped toward her, held out his hand, and used two fingers under her chin to close her mouth. He held those two fingers under her chin longer than necessary, searching her eyes for something though he wasn’t sure what. She stood still but not tense as he touched her, and once he had overstayed his welcome, she removed her hand from the table and brushed his fingers away.

“What good would it do to think about that?”

“None. It would do you absolutely no good at all.”

“Then why ask?”

“I was thinking, not long before you showed up, that if I had died and another had lived, things might have turned out differently. Better even.”

Her throat moved, a dramatic swallow. He watched the muscles move with interest. He had expected, perhaps, immediate denial. It seemed the sort of thing Belle might do: reflexively opt to reassure. She would look past the metaphorical scars that marred his soul and attempt to redirect his thoughts for him. That was what he wanted.

This reaction was not at all what he had envisioned from the fearless heroine with a heart of gold who was capable of seeing the best in anyone even monsters and demons and beasts.

“I don’t wonder how I will die, but I wonder how I could’ve died,” she said softly, her voice thick with unshed tears.

Her eyes were wide and watery. The tears might not stay unshed for long. It was interesting how those threatening tears sparked a kindred feeling. Much like he took one look at Emma Swan and knew she was nursing an orphan’s heart, he could see that Belle bore tragedy she never spoke about to anyone. Tragedy much like his own, perhaps.

“I had a brother,” he ventured, certain he was correct.

She looked at him, those tears still threatening. For a moment her silence led him to believe he’d been mistaken, but his moment of self-doubt was short lived.

“My mother,” she said.

There was another long moment of silence where he reveled in the camaraderie born of regret. It was easy to forget that heroes held guilt in their hearts as well. They liked to lord their white knight perfection over your head, but the reality was heroes were humans the same as villains. He imagined Prince Charming’s smug face for a moment and sneered inwardly at his perfectly coiffed hair. Now there was a man who needed reminding of his past misdeeds and failures.

“It may have been different if they have lived, but there’s no way to know it would have been better,” Belle said.

Killian blinked. His trance broken, he scrambled to piece together what she’d said. It would be a shame to break their tentative truce over something as trivial as his wandering attention.

“A weak heart’s weak consolation,” he replied once he’d reconstructed her thought process in his mind.

“Or the bitter truth that no matter a heart’s strength there are some things you cannot change and cannot know,” she said.

He laughed, “You are a beauty, Belle; of that there can be no doubt, but your brain rivals your pretty face indeed.”

“And you’re a flatterer of the most ridiculous sort,” Belle replied as she pushed herself up onto the edge of the desk and swung her legs off the side.

“I do my best, darling,” he said, giving her a short bow and a wink as he rose back to full standing height.

He looked ‘round the library and spotted a few chairs clustered around a table haphazardly. He strode over and dragged one closer to her before throwing himself into it with a loud sigh. He propped his booted feet on the desk next to Belle’s hand and threw his head back to look at the ceiling.

“Comfortable?”

She was stifling her laughter again, and he raised his head to grin at her.

“Near enough,” he said.

“Then I’ll leave you to it,” she said, hopping off the desk and smoothing down her skirt.

“But it was just starting to get fun,” he said, doing what he could to hide the desperation that wanted to creep into his voice once again.

He still didn’t want her to leave. It wasn’t because she was who she was. He wasn’t particularly interested in her either way though she was pretty enough and smart enough to boot. He liked his women a little mouthy, but to be fair, he also liked them unattached to demons.

But being alone had yet to become appealing. Her company was far better than none and still a sight more welcome than others. Though she had, on occasion leveled him with a glare that could rival that of a small, fluffy bunny, she had never looked at him the way most of Storybrooke’s residents did. She never looked at him like he was trash unworthy of consideration. Even while she spat untruths about his rotten heart in his face, she still beheld him as a person with value somehow though he was sure, at the time, she wasn’t quite certain what that exact value was or where it lay.

She still hadn’t said anything, and her back was toward him so he wasn’t sure what she was feeling. She hadn’t left yet though. Reluctance was something he could work with, and even putting her actions at the present moment aside, he had plenty of evidence for her reluctance. All was not well in the happy home of the Crocodile and his Princess. He wouldn’t pretend to know all, but anyone with half a brain could see Belle wasn’t happy. Late night wanderings, cavorting with drunkards, looking for fixer-up projects in dark alleyways, and the like were all excellent examples of things one didn’t do when entirely content with an allegedly idyllic, romantic home life. 

Belle didn’t want to go home no matter how many overtures she made at leaving.

“You have my permission to stay,” he said, but his voice was soft instead of cocky. The words sounded like a joke, but he wanted it clear between them: he was serious. If she needed permission to stay away and couldn’t give it to herself, he would gladly do it for her. His reasons were selfish, of course, but she would know that already.

“I don’t need your permission to do anything,” she replied, still turned away from him.

“Then acquire permission from yourself, love, and stop denying yourself the respite you deserve.”

“Please don’t pretend you know the workings of my heart, Hook,” she said, and he could see the trembling in her shoulders.

Those unshed tears were making a reappearance, if he were to guess.

“I make no claims on any part of your heart, but I would have to be blind not to notice you are not flushed with the love you claim to have. If you wish to continue repudiating that, be my guest, but this bitter truth,” he said, recalling their earlier discussion, “is one you cannot change.”

She turned to face him then, and her face was dry. She was smiling the hard smile of an angry woman suppressing her rage. A smarter man would have cowered or fled. A smarter man wouldn’t have begun this dance to begin with.

“The only bitter truth here is that you are a sad, empty man with nothing left to live for because Emma Swan won’t give you the time of day. You are projecting your problems onto me. Rumple loves me, and I love him. Reciprocation, Hook. A concept I highly doubt you know much about,” she said.

That was a wound, certainly; it was superficial, but it stung nevertheless. Still, Belle was pulling her punches. She knew where it would hurt far worse than that. She had to assuming she had ever really spoken to the man she claimed to love. It was more evidence to add to his collection. She wanted to protest his claims enough to soothe her dignity, but not protest enough to actually anger him. Not enough for him to storm off or ask her to leave.

He placed his hand over his heart and mock frowned.

“You wound me, darling. Truly, you do.”

Her anger left as quickly as it came, but her shoulders only slumped slightly in defeat. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Do you pretend everyone is an open book to you? Or is it just women that you torment like this?”

He pondered that a moment for he had to admit he’d never really kept count of these heart-to-heart conversations he had, but she moved on before he had a chance to formulate an answer.

“I am perfectly content, you know. I do love him, wholeheartedly. That’s not an issue. I just worry that—”

“Perhaps his devotion is not quite as strong?”

She looked at him, resigned, and nodded. She leaned back against the desk, shoulders up around her ears. He watched her from where he sat, quiet and waiting.

“I know I’m in his heart somewhere,” she said. “But I’m just not ever certain where.”

He raised one finger and drew an ‘x’ in the air. “Ask him to draw you a map.”

She glared at him. “I am sharing something private with you, you know. Goodness knows why, but I am. You could try extending me some courtesy, if you’re capable.”

He sighed and dropped his hand from where it hovered in the air. “Nothing I know about the Crocodile would reassure you, love.”

A neglected and then murdered wife, an abandoned son, an unquenchable thirst for power that never seemed to fade no matter how dire the consequences, and a shrewd eye for manipulation especially when it came to people who called themselves close to him, those were the things he knew about Rumpelstiltskin. No, none of them would reassure her in the slightest.

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t,” she confessed, letting her body slip to the floor as she did so.

He took his feet off the desk, set them on the floor, and then rested his forearms on his knees to match her.

“Perhaps you are the exception to his appalling pattern, love, but…” he trailed off, not wanting to finish himself and hoping she would come to her own correct conclusions about the demon in her bed.

“You have your doubts?”

He inclined his head ever so slightly in acquiescence.

“So do I.”

He gave her a humorless smile. She shook her head and averted her gaze, choosing instead to contemplate the floor beneath her.

He didn’t blame her. There were similarities between Belle and Milah that were too strong to ignore. The doubt, the guilt for doubting, the anger at herself and at Rumpelstiltskin, the anger at the world even for the misfortune of loving a man who put himself before everything else, the need for escape but the reluctance to take it when it was offered…yes, this was behavior he remembered quite well. It was a heavy load to carry on one’s shoulders.

And he was tempted, sorely tempted, to repeat the mistakes of the past and cleave the poor woman from the Crocodile’s side. It would be difficult—Milah had already fallen out of love with the man she married by the time he’d found her, depressed and wanting, at the local tavern instead of at home with her husband and child, but Belle, dear, sweet Belle, was still convinced of her love—but he didn’t think it an impossible task. Having done it once, however, he knew how the story ended, and he would not watch as that bloody demon ripped another woman’s heart from her body and crushed it, unfeeling, in his hands. Belle would have to rescue herself if she wanted rescuing.

“You’re looking at me as though you’ve seen a ghost,” Belle commented, bringing him out of his despairing thoughts.

He cocked his head to one side and studied her. The hair was much the same: long, thick, and almost wild. Belle tamed hers better with lovely twists and braids, but the parallel was there. And there was something seeking in Belle’s eyes, a yearning, which he remembered had lurked in Milah’s gaze until her eyes had gone dark and her life left her. But Belle was soft and dainty where Milah has been hard and uncompromising. If Belle had grown up in the town that had raised Milah then perhaps the similarities would be even more prominent.

He closed his eyes, an image of Milah floating in his head, and he winced when she smiled at him. He forced himself to let go of the image, let it drift back into the recesses of his mind where it belonged. It still hurt to think of her even after all these years.

“I have,” he said, finally.

“And who is this ghost?”

“Another brave, bold girl just like you who fell for the charming local spinner and devoted her life to him. It soon became clear to her, the way it has become clear to you, that her devotion was not being reciprocated the same way. Her wants and desires were being ignored. And she soured in her bitterness. Not even her own child could warm her heart though she loved him the best she was able.

“And she begged the spinner for more of his heart and consideration. Begged of him for change, but he refused time and time again. So when the opportunity presented itself, she found solace in the arms of a pirate. Of all her mistakes, that was, perhaps, the worst of the lot because that decision is what killed her. For the spinner found her, and his wrath grew upon discovering her happy with another. With his newfound power, he took her heart—a thing the pirate held very dearly—and he crushed it. And he was satisfied, at least for a time, with the despair he left behind. A fitting end, the spinner felt, for the woman who ran from him and the pirate who helped her.

“A story you’ve heard before, I’m sure, though I am curious to hear how he tells it.”

“He doesn’t,” she replied, and there were a variety of emotions swirling around in her tone. It was fascinating to hear even as he worked his way past the miasma of pain and fury that reliving that tale inspired in him.

“That doesn’t surprise me in the least. As pleased as he was with his victory, I can’t imagine it sustained him for long. A dark heart is never satisfied with its lot no matter how much pain and suffering it inflicts,” Killian spat bitterly, no longer in the mood to spare Belle’s feelings regarding her significant other. The wrath that was always simmering in his chest was now burning hot and heavy, a raging wildfire prepared to burn to ashes anything in its warpath. He hadn’t felt it this strongly for quite some time.

That was the power of Emma Swan, he suspected. She tempered him in ways he wasn’t sure he was prepared to be tempered. He allowed it because it fascinated him and repulsed him simultaneously. Emma Swan was a captivating woman for a great many reasons, and he suspected she was worth the exploration and surprises that came along.

Even the mere action of contemplating her was cooling his ire, and he breathed out in a rush, expelling metaphorical smoke.

“I apologize. That was callus of me,” he said into the quiet chasm of the library.

“You’ll sincerely apologize for speaking ill of a man you hate in front of his wife, but not for shooting the very same wife?”

“Still feeling sore about that, are we?”

“You shot me!”

It was interesting how shrill an indignant woman’s voice could become.

“Aye, and I would do it again. I won’t lie to you. If it was a choice between shooting you and killing him…I’d fill you with bullets with very little regret. I have lived for a very long time, and I have devoted a good portion of that time investigating every whisper spoken about the Dark One. There is nothing redeeming about that demon or any being it possesses. The only reason he still lives and breathes is because I’ve run out of options by which to stop his breath.”

“And Emma Swan would prefer you not murder citizens of her town,” Belle said, lightly.

“Emma Swan holds a great deal of sway over a great many hearts. Mine included, it would seem. But no, love, not even she would dissuade me if I knew there was a way.”

Belle’s lips thinned, and she looked up at him in disapproval. “Even after all you’ve been through?”

He considered her point for a moment—it was he who had counseled Regina, after all, that the quest for vengeance was an empty one—and nodded his head. “There are many things I could do to increase his suffering that would not kill him. I have refrained from those, have I not? You are sitting across from me now unharmed when hurting you would be an excellent way to cause him some form of pain. It’s why I shot you before, wasn’t it?”

Tension was suspiciously absent from the room at the threat of violence.

“You wouldn’t hurt me now,” Belle protested, but her voice was small and uncertain as though she were reliving that blurry memory of him in the night, grinning like the madman he was, pointing a gun at her, and shooting.

“Perhaps,” he replied, but it was not meant to soothe.

He would like to think that he wouldn’t hurt her now. Not unless he had good reason to, but he knew himself quite well having done a great deal more soul searching during the years than he would admit to out loud. You didn’t always to intend to hurt the people you hurt in the end, and even if Emma Swan had effectively put him on a leash for now, he was still a pirate. Pirates were prone to violence, and he had a great deal of blood on his hands. There was still a good man buried deep inside of him, but he hadn’t been that man—boy, really—in so long, and returning to something resembling that goodness was a slow and steady battle not so easily won.

And that gun had not felt so foreign in his hand when he held it and pulled its trigger. Even if it had, he was armed everywhere he went; the hook was always by his side and sharper than it looked at first glance. Physical harm was an easy option should he decide to choose it. And other types of harm...well, he was excellent at those too. Violence was a difficult habit to break once ingrained.

“I would endeavor not to, at any rate,” he continued.

“He says he would never hurt me,” Belle replied, and there was no mystery surrounding the identity of this ‘he’.

“He is an above average liar and an elegant one at that,” Killian said with a frown. “Anyone who claims they will never hurt you is lying. Violence comes far more naturally to hands and lips than almost anything else.”

“I’d like to believe that isn’t true.”

He smiled at her, not unkindly. “As you wish.”

“Surely you didn’t begin your life as a violent, blood thirsty pirate,” she observed.

“You’re quite correct, but it didn’t take me very long to transform into one. People are strings pulled too tightly to begin with; they are already at breaking point before they even have the chance to live. Add just the slightest bit of stress, and…”

He trailed off, looking down at his hook as though it were the perfect example of his point.

“You don’t have much faith in people,” Belle said, and she was watching his hook as well.

He held it up for her to look her fill.

“Quite the contrary, love, I have a great deal of faith in people. They manage to survive despite impossible odds. I consider myself lucky to be counted among you lot. That doesn’t change the fact that violence is easy, and we like easy.”

“You’re projecting again,” Belle pointed out, and he arched an eyebrow at her. “You like easy.”

“Aye, I’m human, aren’t I?”

Belle shook her head. “You like easy, and you are human. But that doesn’t necessarily mean all humans like easy. A sample of one does not speak for all.”

Killian grinned. “A fair point, my lady, if I did not have a large cache of examples hidden away like treasure.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed. You are sitting here humoring me instead of waltzing home to confront your husband about his feelings. That’s an excellent example.”

“That’s the extent of your plethora of examples?”

“No, but I thought it the most pertinent,” Killian said with a lazy smile, propping his feet on the desk once again.

Belle breathed out harshly through her nose but only glared at him.

“I know I’m quite the menace, but do you really want to be glaring at me? Or someone else?”

“You are a menace, and I do want to glare at you.”

“You know, you really should stop cavorting with me while I’m intoxicated,” he suggested.

“It’s not that I mean to, and anyway, I thought you said you were sobering,” Belle replied, looking away.

“Ah, so it’s fate then? That brings together the drunk pirate and the dissatisfied wives of Rumpelstiltskin?”

Belle said nothing.

“What a cruel mistress fate is,” he said.

“For you or for me?”

“For us both.”

They sat in silence for a while, and Killian tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He felt almost light hearted though he had run a gamut of emotions that should have rendered him weary. Belle had a magic of her own, he suspected. Not something flashy and powerful like most of Storybrooke’s residents. No, it was something far more mundane and subtle. It was the best sort of magic, really.

He opened one eye to look at her and found her gaze locked onto his figure. She had been studying him.

“See something you like, darling?”

“It’s not that,” she replied absently, and she kept looking at him.

He opened his other eye and lifted his head.

“I just don’t understand,” she continued.

He waited for her to finish her train of thought. He was curious to see where her musings had taken her. They had a tumultuous relationship at best, and he wouldn’t bet on her opinion of him being very high even with her rather forgiving attitude.

“I don’t like you very much. You are crude, violent, and entirely irredeemable. But I…”

“Fallen victim to my charm, have you?”

“You were lounging in a drunken stupor in a dark alley when I found you, you’ve insulted myself and my husband repeatedly this evening, and you smell. You are not charming.”

“But you…” he trailed off, mocking her. He was charming even with the body odor.

She huffed out a laugh. “But I find you suspiciously easy to talk to.”

“You are not the first to remark upon that.”

It wasn’t a mystery. He was willing to listen, and he found that, when afforded a ready ear, most people were relieved to speak their minds and hearts. Listening was, strangely, a rare skill amongst people of all sorts. Even the so-called heroes were more likely to talk than they were to listen. Heroes were all about dramatic speeches, in his experience.

He, on the other hook, knew how to balance silence with sound. As fond as he was of his own voice, he could be quiet and often was though he doubted anyone in this town would have remarked upon it. They seemed far more concerned with what he said and the many ways they could express their disapproval of every word.

“Women tell you their deep, dark secrets often?” She smiled as she said it as though she were laughing at him.

“Men too,” he said, looking at her frankly.

She might be mocking him, but she had been sitting here for a fair bit of time now as he listened to her explain her particular relationship woes to him. It had happened gradually rather than one emotional outpouring, but the fact remained that he now knew more about the inner workings of her relationship than even her husband did at this point. He highly doubted she had shared any of her misgivings with Rumpelstiltskin. And if she had, he would have brushed them aside. Killian had seen firsthand what the imp thought of the concerns of the people in his life that he claimed were important. They were never his top priority. They were never a priority at all.

“I would have thought that, looking the way you do,” she said, gesturing up and down his torso with her hand, “people would avoid you rather than confide in you. It’s an interesting paradox.”

“Ah, but I have a lovely smile,” he said, and now he was mocking himself. He did always manage to come back to that on nights like these.

“You don’t smile that often,” she replied.

He tipped his head to her. “Neither do you.”

There was a moment when her gaze caught his, and the old cliché of the world stopping became a reality for him. She had pretty eyes, but he had seen far more breathtaking eyes in his time. They weren’t even that spectacular a shade of blue. His were likely more jewel like than hers. Yet he still found himself enraptured by her somehow. His voice caught in his throat, and he was suspended in time, unable to tear his stare from hers. He didn’t move at all, save for the slight and steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

She wasn’t crying, but those unshed tears were threatening once more. They made her eyes look dewy, large, and almost unbearably innocent. It was a trap tailor made for him. It was utterly irresistible. 

Her eyes held a promise of, if not forgiveness, then at least a lasting tolerance. A kinship. A strange sort of understanding.

And then she blinked, gods damn her.

He was released from Charybdis and left to drift aimlessly once more.

For the first time this evening, he felt tired as though she had leeched from him any remaining strength he possessed. Perhaps she would be the sea monster that finally drowned him.

He stood abruptly now that he was free to move, and he ignored the rush of dizziness that hit him in favor of walking as steadily as he was able toward the door. He stopped next to where she sat and looked down at her, carefully avoiding meeting her eyes directly.

“Do me a favor,” he said, and then when he was sure he had her attention, “Don’t get yourself killed.”

And he had his hand on the door to open it when he felt her light touch on his shoulder holding him back.

He stilled his hasty exit but did not drop his hand from the door.

“You should come to the library more often. Read a book or two. Tell me what you think about Treasure Island.”

He craned his neck to glance back at her. She was smiling softly with a curious war of certainty and uncertainty playing out in her eyes.

“Aye, I could do that,” he said, his tone allying with the half of her that was uncertain.

She kept her hand on his shoulder, a steady anchor. She had accused him of being a paradox, but truly, it was she who filled that wonderfully contradictory role. How she could cause him to think of drowning one moment and then hold him steadily afloat the next was far more perplexing than any puzzle he might have presented her.

He did like a good challenge.

He pressed against the door until he was spilling out onto the dark streets of Storybrooke once more and out of her grasp.

“You could sleep here,” she suggested, following him out onto the street. She hugged her arms around her middle to ward off the bitter chill.

“Another time, perhaps,” he said. Though he couldn’t say he was looking forward to sleeping out in the elements once again, he wasn’t sure sleeping in the library was the best choice for his psyche at the moment.

Funny how he’d let her offer him solace, had begged it from her in all honesty, and now he was the one choosing to run away.

“Good night, Hook,” she called to his retreating back. He raised his hook in acknowledgement of her words and hastened off into the night.

Any well-seasoned soldier knew when to retreat. It was not yet time for his final stand.


End file.
